


Property Husbands: Hell House Edition

by amscray_punk



Series: Property Husbands [1]
Category: Newsies - All Media Types, Newsies!: the Musical - Fierstein/Menken
Genre: A little funny, A little spooky, Alternate Universe - Horror, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Haunted Houses, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Married Sprace, Spooktober, This is mostly silly, contractor Spot, fun little haunted house story for spooky season, i'm so bad at tags omfg, interior designer Race, it's been brought to my attention this is uhh more than a little spooky, no happy ending sorry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-14
Updated: 2020-10-31
Packaged: 2021-03-09 03:15:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 12,907
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27007933
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amscray_punk/pseuds/amscray_punk
Summary: Spot's a contractor, Race is an interior designer, and together they flip houses. Their realtor friend, Katherine, finds them a once-in-a-lifetime property they justcan'tpass up. Welcome to Hell House.*This started out silly & spiraled out of control, as USUAL.**Rating for language and suggestive language/situations in ch 4!
Relationships: Spot Conlon/Racetrack Higgins
Series: Property Husbands [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2013220
Comments: 75
Kudos: 63





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I almost can't believe I'm posting this but it's been so much fun to write & I really wanted to do something for Spooktober so, fuck it. This is yet another modern AU, shamelessly inspired by HGTV. Originally I wanted this to be a one shot but I'm a wordy bitch so there will be ~five chapters, although they'll be shorter than usual for me.
> 
> Big, HUGE thanks to [gracetrackhiggins](https://archiveofourown.org/users/gracetrackhiggins/pseuds/gracetrackhiggins) and [firehearte](https://archiveofourown.org/users/firehearte/pseuds/firehearte) for their collaboration, motivation and _constant_ support. This literally wouldn't exist without you two!! 🥰💜
> 
> Happy Spooktober & enjoy!

“Nope.”

“Spotty—”

“No way, Racer,” Spot stood rooted to the sidewalk, arms crossed tightly over his chest. He shook his head once more for emphasis. “Nope.” Race sighed, turning to look again at the huge, stunning house Spot was currently refusing to consider. He only just managed not to petulantly stomp his foot as he looked, barely suppressing a whine. 

“Why not? It’s beautiful!”

“It's creepy,” 

“Oh, c'mon, you can’t say no before you even go in.” Race half-laughed, eyes drawn down the sidewalk as a familiar figure approached. He grinned, lifting a hand in a greeting that was eagerly returned. “You gotta see the inside. And wait ‘til you hear the _price_!” 

Spot grumbled under his breath,—Race thought he might’ve heard “couldn’t pay me,”—shaking his head as Katherine reached them. She pulled Race into a warm hug, reaching out to punch Spot lightly on the shoulder as she did. 

“And how is my favorite HGTV couple on this lovely fall day?” Katherine was chipper as always, looking like a walking American Eagle ad, complete with what Race could only assume was a pumpkin spice latte in one hand, keys to the house in the other. Spot sighed but Race beamed at her, nearly vibrating with excitement.

"I'm ready to get Spot inside and see his face when he realizes how very wrong he is,” Race said, smug as could be while Spot rolled his eyes. His exasperation didn’t faze his husband, though, as Race eagerly looped his arm through Katherine’s and led her up the walk to the large, fabulous porch. He could almost feel the negative energy rolling off of Spot in waves as they neared the house. He looked distinctly uncomfortable; leather jacket pulled taut over his shoulders, hands jammed in his pockets, eyes darting over the property as they approached.

Race had to admit, the house needed some work. The exterior paint was dark and peeling in places; unruly ivy and a boarded up window or two conveyed its obvious neglect. Its large size, Victorian design and steep angles of the roof gave it an almost comically haunted look, and the wrought iron fence had tips that looked dangerously sharp. The trees had long since coated the yard with dry, crunchy leaves, and their bare branches cast an admittedly spooky silhouette against the cloudy sky. Race noted distantly that most of the trees lining the street still had their vibrant orange and red leaves, lending an especially eerie vibe to the property. But then again, Spot was always a little jumpy at this time of year, something Race exploited with glee; he found it absolutely hilarious that his strong, unflappable husband was so easily spooked by the notion of the paranormal. 

But they were, after all, partners not only in marriage but in business; Race was the interior designer to Spot's contractor, earning them a number of amusing nicknames—Race was partial to Property Husbands, himself. And so, at the risk of sounding like a cliché, Race had enticed Spot to come see the place with a promise of great condition and an unbelievable price. Throw in the desirable neighborhood in a nice school district, and Race was _sure_ he'd convince Spot to take a chance on it in no time. 

He was practically dancing in place while they waited for Katherine to unlock the door. “And it’s _furnished_!”

“Racer, that just means whoever lived here before left in such a hurry they forgot all their shit.”

Race laughed. “Spot, you can’t be serious?” 

The look Spot gave him was response enough, and Race forgot all about teasing him when the door swung open. The house was massive, and every bit as stunning on the inside, even if it was rather dated. Race had to admit the interior wouldn’t do him any favors in convincing Spot it wasn’t haunted. The air was thick and stale; the cobwebs in the corners and dust on every surface made it clear the house had been uninhabited for quite a while. The furniture Katherine had promised was there, draped in white sheets. Race flitted from room to room, pulling up the corners of the sheets to get a look; squealed with excitement when he found genuine antiques that could be easily restored. The floors were hardwood, and in decent shape—Race figured it wouldn’t take much to return them to their former glory. The walls were a mix of bold colors and deep, dark wood paneling; they’d have to lighten that up, a bit. 

He caught up to Spot in the kitchen, where he was immediately distracted by the gorgeous window over the sink that looked out into the backyard—which, admittedly, needed some attention, too. He sighed happily.

“Spotty, isn’t it beautiful?” 

“You want an honest answer to that?” Spot was clearly not having as much fun as he worked his way around the perimeter of the kitchen, inspecting. He was still tense, Race could tell, hands shoved in his pockets. Race rolled his eyes, turning to lean against the counter.

“Okay, fine, admit that it’s got potential.” Spot snorted at that. “It’s got great—”

“If you say ‘it’s got great bones’ so help me—”

“Oh come _on,_ ” Race sighed, on the way to exasperated. “What’s your problem?”

Spot didn’t answer him, his eyes lingering on the door next to the pantry as Katherine joined them. "Don't you have to disclose if someone died here?" Race bit his lip, trying not to laugh.

"Spot," Katherine didn’t roll her eyes, but Race could hear the amusement in her voice and he knew Spot could, too. "This place was built in, like, 1900. Of _course_ people have died here."

"Violently?"

"Oh my God," Race couldn’t help it; he outright laughed. “I’m sorry, Kath. He gets like this during spooky season.”

“Nah,” Spot shook his head, reaching a hand toward the door and then pulling it back just as quickly. “Nothin’ to do with the season. This place would be creepy in July, too.” 

“You’re afraid of ghosts?” Katherine raised a curious eyebrow. “Wait, you _believe_ in ghosts?”

“He does,” Race answered for him, pushing off the counter to join Spot by the door. 

“And you don’t?”

Race shook his head as he ran a hand lightly along Spot’s shoulders; felt just a little of the tension there fade. Spot didn’t take his eyes off of the door, but Race noticed his jaw relax, the tiniest bit. Katherine was watching them with no small amount of amusement, and Race could tell she _really_ wanted to inquire further, but Spot spoke first.

“Where’s this door lead?”

“The basement. It’s not finished, but it’s a good storage space. Dry, too. Actually, there are some more antiques down there, if you want to check them out."

Race turned excitedly to Spot, who was already shaking his head. “Can we—”

“Racer, if you want me to actually consider buying this place, do not ask me to go in the basement.”

“Fine,” Race huffed, not hiding the way his eyes rolled skyward as he looked toward Katherine. “What’s next?”

Katherine opened her mouth to respond, but Spot cut her off. 

“The wiring in this place has gotta be a disaster,” He sounded thoughtful, almost hopeful as he said it, and Race nearly admonished him for interrupting before he realized Spot wasn’t even looking at them, anymore; he was meandering toward the formal dining room, very pointedly not looking at the basement door. Katherine’s eyes brightened as she reached into her large tote bag and produced a stack of papers.

“Actually, it passed inspection with flying colors, considering the age of the property.” She said, nodding when Spot turned, clearly surprised. She held the papers out to him and he reluctantly approached, snatching them from her hand. She was unfazed, though, and she waved a dismissive hand at him before reaching for Race. “Here, take a look for yourself. I’m gonna show Race the rest of the house and the basement—you can wait outside, if you’re more comfortable.” 

Spot didn’t offer her a response, although Race didn’t miss the subtle twitch of his jaw as he busied himself with the inspection report. In fact, Spot didn’t say anything else the rest of the time they were in the house. Race fell in love with the place, of course, and he talked Spot’s ear off for the rest of the day and evening, positively gushing about his many ideas for the design. 

“...and of course we’ll need to lighten up the paint, some of those big rooms on the main floor feel so much smaller ‘cause they’re so dark—”

“Racer,” Spot finally interrupted as they settled into bed. He dropped his head back against the pillows, eyes falling closed. “You’re acting like we’ve already decided to buy it.”

“That’s because you’ve given me absolutely _no_ good reason why we shouldn’t. And don’t say it’s haunted,” Race added quickly, scooting closer under the covers and wrapping a hand around Spot’s bicep. “‘Cause that’s nonsense.”

“Gee, thanks,” Spot huffed. “So nice of you to mock my beliefs.”

“Oh, come off it,” Race sighed, dropping his head to press a kiss to Spot’s shoulder. Spot gave an unconvinced grunt in response. “Be rational for a minute, will ya? It’s _huge_ , furnished, the neighborhood is up-and-coming—”

“I hate it when you say shit like that,” Spot muttered, rolling his eyes. Race pressed on.

“—and full of families, plus the school district—”

“Ah, yes, the ever-important school district—”

“Spotty! The price _alone_ is worth it, with that square footage? Not to mention the electrical’s mostly good, there’s somehow no water damage anywhere on the property, and the roof is in really good shape. We could have this place flipped and sold by Halloween, I’d bet on it.”

“You’d bet on anything.”

“That’s—well, yeah, that’s true,” Race conceded, moving his free hand to roam over Spot’s bare chest. Spot’s eyes snapped open, fixing him with an almost wary look. Race grinned, holding eye contact as he kissed Spot’s shoulder again. “Sean—”

“Don’t ‘Sean’ me,” Spot grumbled, but Race caught the way Spot turned almost imperceptibly toward him. He picked up Spot’s arm and wrapped it around his shoulders, pressing himself into his side. He ducked down, moving his lips oh so innocently along his collarbone.

  
“Sean,” He said again, completely ignoring him. He was almost draped over him, now, as his lips moved steadily down Spot’s chest, hands running down his sides. Spot let out a harsh sigh through his nose, but said nothing. Race climbed entirely on top of him, looking up at him with wide, bright eyes and that mischievous grin he _knew_ Spot couldn’t resist. “Isn’t there _anything_ I can do to convince you?”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things are getting a little... strange

“Racer,”

Race grumbled into his pillow, clinging desperately to the remnants of sleep. Spot nudged him with an elbow.

“Racer, your alarm.”

“Ungghh,” Race groaned, rolling away from Spot to reach blindly for his phone—the source of the incessant beeping currently standing between him and a warm, sleepy morning curled into Spot’s side. He squinted at the screen and cursed under his breath. _Fuck._ “I gotta get up.”

“What for?”

“Gotta let the electrician in the house,” He whined, dropping back onto his pillow and rubbing his hands over his face. 

“Why so early?” Spot grumbled, turning onto his side as his eyes drifted closed again.

“Only time slot he had for two weeks,” Race sighed, pushing into a sitting position. It should be illegal to schedule things before dawn. “Couldn’t wait.”

Spot grunted a response that sounded vaguely like "your fault" before his breathing evened out again. Race spared himself a moment to just look at him, the soft smile on his face one his husband would surely mock, if he were awake to see it. Spot always looked perfect in his sleep; no tension in his brow, shoulders relaxed, lips full and soft. He leaned down to drop a quick kiss to his temple before he summoned the will to get out of bed. He dressed quickly, thanking past-Race for having the foresight to make cold brew as he filled a travel cup and hurried out into the way-too-fucking-early morning darkness.

He dragged himself out of the cab in front of the house, pausing for a moment on the sidewalk. For the first time, Race thought he could see why Spot found the place so creepy. Perhaps it was the inky backdrop, but he felt almost... uneasy as he made his way up the walk. He blamed a combination of the autumn chill and the ungodly hour for his slow realization that there was something just a little _off_ about the house. He stopped dead on the walk when he finally noticed; the light in one of the upstairs bedrooms was on. Race frowned. He racked his brain, trying to remember who had been in the house last. Had it been him? He didn’t remember going in that room, let alone leaving the light on—although, Spot _was_ always following him through their own apartment, grumbling about the electric bill as he flipped off the switches Race forgot. He shrugged a shoulder as he continued to the door; it could very well have been his fault. He checked his watch as he let himself in, noting he still had ten minutes before the electrician would arrive.

He hurried up the stairs, feeling his mind begin to clear itself of the morning fog; that was probably the coffee’s doing. He pushed open the door to the bedroom, fighting a shiver. They’d kept the thermostat fairly low to avoid paying too much in utilities while they renovated, but he would have bet money the room was below sixty degrees. He reached for the switch, already turning to leave when he stopped. His eyes snagged on the closet door, just slightly ajar. Now _that_ was weird. This bedroom was one that needed minimal work, floors waxed and some paint, so neither of them had spent any significant time in it, just yet. Race felt his heartrate pick up slightly and he almost laughed out loud at himself; Spot was rubbing off on him. 

He crossed the room, fully intending to close the closet door and retreat—but instead he found himself opening it, stepping inside, pulling the string that hung from the bare bulb. He immediately began imagining the finished space, filled with extra sheets and coats—the kinds of things one would keep in a guest bedroom closet. Those built-ins would make for excellent shoe storage, too—

_Whoosh._

“What the fuck—” Race spun around, one hand moving instinctively to cover the back of his neck, chilled from a sudden draft of frigid air that had seemingly come from nowhere. He looked quickly toward the window, and his stomach twisted when he confirmed it was closed. He gulped, frozen in place. His rational mind tried desperately to explain where the air had come from, but his body’s natural fight-or-flight reaction was making it difficult. All he could hear in his head was Spot, insisting that random cold chills meant supernatural activity. He raked his eyes over every inch of the bedroom, not exactly sure what he was searching for—something, anything to blame, but the room remained the same as it was when he’d entered. _Get a grip, Tony._ He admonished himself, giving his head a little shake. He must just be tired, still. 

Race yanked on the string a little harder than was strictly necessary, hurrying out of the closet and closing the door firmly behind him. He crossed the room quickly, pausing at the door and looking, almost involuntarily, back over his shoulder. His skin still felt prickly, that feeling of being watched. He swept his gaze over the room, one hand on the doorknob, and his eyes just caught on the corner of the sheet covering the dresser, almost looked like it was swaying in a breeze—

_Bang bang bang._

“Shit!” Race jumped half a foot in the air, free hand clutching at his chest. His heart beat so fast it almost hurt as his body screamed at him to run—after a horrified moment, his brain caught up and explained it was just the electrician, pounding on the front door. He cursed under his breath as he angrily flipped off the switch and slammed the door behind him, willing his heart to calm down. He’d have to have Spot come check out those drafts, later.

He stalked outside the moment he showed the electrician to the basement, breathing deeply through his nose, trying to settle his nerves. He blamed the loud, sudden arrival of the electrician for the adrenaline still pumping through his veins, urging him out of the house, away from the closet that had seemed almost to shrink in on him. He gave himself a shake, grateful Spot wasn’t there to witness his reaction—simultaneously wishing he had been. 

“C’mon, Racer,” He muttered to himself, raking a steadying hand through his hair. The sky was beginning to lighten, now, and there was plenty of work to be done in the yard. He downed the rest of his coffee, pushed up his sleeves, and set to work in the neglected flower beds.

Race was still in the front yard a couple of hours later, staining a coffee table that had been left in the living room. He’d told himself the open air was a better location for working with fumes, and the guys were going to be working on the floors on the main level, so it was best he stayed out of their way. The yard looked worlds better than it had since they first bought the place, leaves painstakingly transferred to giant bags he’d set on the curb, flower beds expertly weeded, awaiting fresh mulch. Race lifted his head when he heard Spot’s truck pull into the driveway, his presence comforting even before he headed toward him carrying coffee and breakfast. Spot let out a low whistle as he approached.

“Damn, baby,” He said, sounding impressed as he handed Race his coffee. “You’ve been busy. Yard looks great.”

“Thanks,” Race said, wiping at his brow as he took a grateful sip. He didn’t actually feel like he _needed_ another cup—had been rather jittery all morning, in fact—but the gesture warmed his chest and he suddenly felt a little silly for refusing to go back in the house. He made grabby hands at the bag Spot held; Spot rolled his eyes but passed him a bagel, which he tore into. “Oh, don’t—” He cut himself off as he realized his mouth was full and held up a finger until he finished chewing. “Don’t let me forget, I need you to check out one of the bedrooms upstairs. I think there may be gaps in the insulation.” 

“Great,” Spot sighed, looking over Race’s shoulder at the house with undisguised dislike. “Just another day at the Hell House.” Race chuckled and shoved lightly at Spot’s shoulder. 

“You love it.”

“I do not,” Spot deadpanned. Just then Albert, one of Spot’s crew, poked his head out the front door.

“Hey, uh, Spot? Have you seen the floor tape? I swear I left it in the kitchen, yesterday—" 

"DaSilva," Spot groaned. "The fuck was it doing in the kitchen? Kitchen's next week—" 

"I thought we were starting it today!" 

"I sent the schedule out last week—"

"I lost it,"

"How do you lose a fucking email?" 

"Oh it was an email? Uh—"

"Just—" Spot closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose; Race fought back a giggle. "I'll be there in a minute. Just go look for it." 

Albert headed back inside and Race pursed his lips, trying desperately to hold in his amusement. Spot drained his coffee before turning back to him. 

"I'm gonna staple the fucking schedule to his forehead Racer, I swear to God." 

"Understandable," Race chuckled, following him inside. It was funny, he mused, that _he_ was the skeptic and yet, Spot’s very presence was the push he needed to enter the house again. "Hey, can you come check out this bedroom real quick?" 

Spot hesitated; Race raised an eyebrow at him.

"Is this a ploy to get me alone? 'Cause I really don't want to spend more time in this house than I have to—" 

"Amazingly, no," Race said, shaking his head. "I just know it'll be impossible to snag you, later." 

"Fine, make it quick." He agreed, nodding a greeting to Henry as he passed through the foyer. 

"However you want it, baby." Race winked at him, giggling at the huff Spot let out before he followed him up the stairs. Race led him to the bedroom, fighting hard against the chill that ran down his spine when he pushed the door open and flipped the switch. "So I was over the—" He cut off abruptly as he entered the room, eyes immediately drawn to the closet door; it was wide open. Race’s jaw hung open. He knew for a _fact_ he'd closed it—slammed it, rather—earlier that morning. Spot followed his gaze, eyebrows knitting together in confusion. 

"What is it?" 

"Nothing I—" Race paused. "Nothing. Must not have shut the door all the way, that's all. Anyway," he pressed on, ignoring the way his heart had begun to pound. "I was in the closet and it was already fuckin' freezing and then I felt a draft. Thought it came from the window, but…" He trailed off, lifting a shoulder in a half shrug. Spot looked at him for just a moment too long before he nodded and moved around the perimeter of the room, using a fancy thermometer to check the temperature in the walls. 

Race moved almost unconsciously toward the closet, jaw set in a hard line. The latch must be broken, he told himself. That had to be it. He stepped cautiously inside, pulling the string on the light. It looked the same as it had that morning, empty, dusty. Spot appeared at his shoulder and he jumped, drawing a surprised laugh from his husband. 

"Whatsa matter, Hell House gettin' to you?"

Race ignored him in favor of examining the closet again. But this time, his eyes caught on a bright red _something_ up on one of the high built-in shelves. He frowned. That hadn't been there earlier. He leaned forward on his toes, fully extending his arm to reach it. He could feel Spot’s eyes on him as he closed his fingers around it and pulled it down. 

"What the—" He whispered, his brain slow to catch up to what his eyes were seeing. 

"The floor tape?" Spot voiced the thought Race couldn't quite form, sounding as confused as he felt. "The hell is it doing up here?" 

"I… have no idea," Race admitted, mystified. He turned the tape over in his hands as if it would offer up its secrets, furrow deep in his brow. "I swear it wasn't here this—"

"This isn't fucking funny, Racer." 

"I—what?" He sputtered, confused by the hard glint in Spot’s eyes, his accusing tone. 

"This," Spot scowled, gesturing to the room around them before he grabbed the tape from Race’s hands. "Moving the tape in here, makin' shit up about cold drafts—"

"I didn't—"

"I checked the walls, Racer, they're perfectly fine. I just can't believe you would hide shit we actually need just for a laugh—"

"Hold the fuck on," Race said, finally catching his drift. "You think _I_ did this? Why?"

"Oh come on," Spot huffed. "This is exactly the kinda thing you'd do—"

"Ex _cuse_ —"

"You think it's just _so_ funny that I believe in ghosts, don't you? Like talkin' me into buying this place wasn't bad enough—"

"Oh my God, stop," Race insisted, confusion morphing quickly to annoyance. "This was _obviously_ Al—"

"Don't blame this on my guys," Spot snapped. 

"Five minutes ago you threatened to maim him! He must have come up here last night for some reason, put the tape in the closet, left the light on for me to find this morning—"

"Why the hell would he do that? Al can't even reach that hi—wait, what? The light was on?" 

Race paused, surprised by Spot’s sudden change in tone. "Yeah, why?" 

"Racer… I checked every light before we left last night. None of them were on." 

Race opened his mouth, but no words came out. He glanced almost involuntarily back up at the shelf. He could have _sworn_ the tape hadn't been there that morning. And, really, Albert hadn't been there long enough to hide it. The more Race thought about it, the less it made sense; Spot was exasperated with him enough without creating problems for himself. Al wouldn't do this. 

"But… how…" 

"Nah," Spot said suddenly, shaking his head as he backed out of the closet, out of the room. "Fuck this. I'm going to do the floors so I can forget this place ever existed." Race could hear him grumbling under his breath as he stalked down the hall.

Race stood, frozen to the spot. He was completely dumbfounded, and a _little_ creeped out. It took a good, long moment before he was able to convince himself to leave the room, fighting hard not to look over his shoulder on his way. For the first time, he wondered just what exactly he'd gotten them into.


	3. Chapter 3

A week passed without major incident. Spot’s crew finished the hardwood floors on the main level, and were beginning the kitchen update. Spot had grumbled, here and there, about little things going missing or being misplaced, but Race was always quick to point out that Spot had no small number of disorganized dumbasses on his crew, talented as they may be. Race had kept himself plenty busy, picking through the furniture left behind in the rooms and finalizing his design. Spot still hadn’t set foot in the basement, a fact Race threatened to reveal to his crew nearly every single morning. But Race distinctly remembered a pair of gorgeous, matching end tables he’d seen when he’d been down there with Katherine that would be just _perfect_ for staging the master bedroom. 

Race sauntered into the kitchen, late afternoon sun streaming through the window over the sink, and stopped dead in the doorway. Spot, in dust-streaked jeans and a black sleeveless shirt, was busy tearing down cupboards with his hands, and Race could do nothing but watch. It was a wonder, sometimes, how he got anything done at all with his husband walking around looking like that all the time. He didn’t even realize he’d bitten his lip as he watched Spot rip those cupboards out of the wall with sheer, brute strength—

“Racer?” Spot’s voice cut through his trance and he blinked, standing up straight. “Y'okay?”

“Hmm? Oh, yeah,” He nodded, feigning nonchalance. Nearly six years of marriage and still, if Spot threw him against the wall right there in front of the crew, Race wouldn’t say no. He cleared his throat, attempting to push _those_ thoughts from his mind before he did end up embarrassing himself—well, Spot, rather, Race had no shame—in front of the guys. “M’fine. Just gonna get a couple things from the basement to work on tomorrow.” Spot raised an eyebrow.

“Do you need help?” 

Race grinned. “Are you offering to accompany me?” Spot narrowed his eyes and Race chuckled. “Don’t worry, love, your secret is safe with me. I’m just grabbing a couple of end tables.” Spot didn’t look quite convinced, glancing between Race and the basement door a few times before Race waved him off. “I’ll be fine. Just don’t go home without me.” He added, winking at him as he made his way toward the door. Spot grumbled a response before he turned to get back to work, and Race had to force himself to tear his eyes away so he didn’t trip down the basement stairs.

The basement was probably the one place in the entire house that Race would admit to being a little creepy. Although, he reasoned, _all_ basements were inherently creepy, and this one happened to be over a hundred years old, unfinished, and rather poorly lit. Only two bare bulbs for the entire space, both controlled by the switch at the top of the stairs. Race flipped it on as he walked down, hearing the door close behind him. He’d only gone down once before with Katherine, on that initial walk-through, but he remembered that the end tables were stacked in the corner with a few other random pieces of furniture. 

He found them quickly, cursing himself for forgetting to bring a rag to wipe off the dust. He coughed into his elbow as he used his sleeve to clear the surface, trying to ignore the small shiver that worked its way up his spine. It was just cold down there, that was all; even colder than the rest of the house. Once it was reasonably clean, Race picked up the small table and carried it carefully toward the stairs. He only made it a step or two when—

“Fuck!” He cursed loudly, almost dropping the table. He just barely managed to set it gently on the floor before he grabbed instinctively at his foot, which he’d slammed against something hard, and heavy. He looked angrily around the dimly-lit floor, frowning when he found what looked to be a large, old wooden trunk. He didn’t remember seeing it, before, but he hadn’t been paying _that_ much attention—too busy envisioning the finished end tables to notice it, he supposed. 

He crouched down, pain in his toe promptly ignored as he ran his hands over the surface of the trunk, dragging his fingertips along the ornate metal accents. He fiddled with the padlock, letting out a resigned sigh when he found it to be locked. He patted the top of it as he stood and retrieved the end table, resuming his path toward the stairs. He set the table out of the way in the kitchen before returning to the basement to grab its match. This time, his eyes caught almost immediately on the trunk. It stood out now, the way things sometimes do once you’ve noticed them; hard to look anywhere else. His curiosity got the better of him and he approached it again, walking around it. It was dusty, like everything else in the basement, and heavy enough that it hadn’t moved an inch when he’d run into it—he could still feel that in his toe.

He wondered, not for the first time, why this house had seemingly fallen into their lap; why so many priceless antiques had been left behind. And now, he wondered what was in this trunk, clearly as old as the house or possibly even older, and locked up tight in the basement. Race reached a hand out almost instinctively and brushed his fingertips over the surface again—nearly jumped out of his skin when the lights flickered at the exact moment he made contact. 

“Fuckin’ hell,” He snapped, sudden adrenaline mixing with embarrassment. He was a grown man, for fuck’s sake, and he hadn’t believed in ghosts since he was a kid. Race grumbled under his breath as he tore himself away from the trunk and its curious pull and picked up the other end table. He was still admonishing himself as he made his way up the stairs, shifting the table under one arm so he could open the door. He grasped the cold metal doorknob, turned, and pushed—but the door didn’t move. “Wh—” Race frowned, twisting the knob experimentally in the other direction and pushing against it again. Nothing.

The adrenaline that hadn’t quite left him spiked through his veins again, and it was harder to focus on holding the end table—which, held against his hip with one arm, was becoming rather heavy. He turned the knob as far as it would go and jerked it back and forth; surely the latch was just jammed, and one of the crew would hear him struggling and let him out. His grip on the table slipped as his hands grew clammy with anxiety, breaths coming quicker as he tried to remain balanced on the top step. Against his better judgment, he shot a look over his shoulder at the stairs below—they seemed almost to ripple, as though he were drunk and he swallowed hard, squeezing his eyes shut. He breathed harshly in through his nose and out through his mouth as he turned back to the door, trying to quiet the rushing in his ears. 

“Hey!” He called, moving his other hand now to pound on the door. The table slipped further; he had to grab it with both hands and turn to lean against the door, panting with the effort. “Fuck,” Race cursed again, mind racing. Hopefully, someone had heard him and was on the way to let him out—but he was haunted by an image of the end table splintering into pieces at the bottom of the stairs. He let out a string of curses as he made his way slowly, carefully down the stairs and set the table at the bottom. “Should’ve been a two minute fucking job but _noo_ , old ass house with old ass doors and old ass fuckin' doorknobs, should’ve listened to Spot—” 

Race reached for the knob with both hands, this time, twisting this way and that, pushing against the door with all his might. Nothing. The door remained resolutely shut, mocking him. With a frustrated growl he gave up on the knob, resigning to banging on the door with both fists, _yelling_ at the top of his lungs for someone, anyone to let him out. He didn’t know how much time passed; couldn’t, wouldn’t stop long enough to check his watch. His hands grew sore and tender, voice hoarse with the effort while his heart went into overdrive. He tried desperately to ignore the way the hair on the back of his neck stood up, the way he wanted _so badly_ to turn around and look behind him. He forced the thoughts from his mind, gritting his teeth as he told himself there was _nothing wrong with this house._

His rhythm slowed as exhaustion set in, fists flattening out until he was smacking weakly against the door with open palms, not even bothering to yell, anymore. The lingering adrenaline had left him shaky, unsteady on his feet and he leaned his full weight against the door, letting out a desperate sound as he dropped his forehead against the wood. None of this made sense. The door had an old-fashioned lock, the kind that needed a key, so it wasn’t as if any of the crew could have accidentally locked him down there. Race had told Spot where he was going, and, hell, nearly the entire crew had been in the kitchen when he’d gone down. When _had_ he gone down? He glanced at his watch and his heart leapt hopefully when he saw the time—ten after four, so he’d only been down there for five—

“Wait,” He muttered, squinting at his watch in the dim light. The second hand was frozen. He lifted his wrist to his ear and his stomach clenched at the silence. He gulped, trying to ignore the panic blooming hot in his chest. How long had he been stuck down there? Another sudden surge of adrenaline gave him a burst of strength and he redoubled his efforts, pounding harder, yelling louder, even giving the door a kick or two. He was just beginning to wonder if maybe there was a window he could crawl out of when the door suddenly swung open. He fell forward onto his hands and knees on the kitchen floor, taking huge, gulping gasps of air as he scrambled away from the door as fast as he could. “Fuck—”

“Racer?!” Spot sounded more confused than anything, but Race could hear the concern that touched his voice. Race backed up against the kitchen island, feet pushing against the floor in an attempt to move even further away from the still-open basement door. His chest heaved as he tried to catch his breath, fully incapable of explaining. Spot was on the floor beside him in a second, reaching for him. He went instinctively, ducking his head into Spot’s chest as his arms circled him tightly. “What the hell—what happened?”

“Spotty, I—” Race gasped, twisting his hands into Spot’s shirt. Spot rubbed a calming hand over his back and he tried to focus on the warmth, on breathing in Spot’s scent. Spot held him firmly, quietly, and after a few minutes, his heartrate began to slow. Race slumped against him, shaky and weak as the adrenaline drained from him again. Spot squeezed him tightly.

“Baby,” Spot said, dropping his voice into that soothing register that made Race curl more closely against him. “What happened?” 

“I don’t know,” Race said, clearing his throat when it came out raspy. “I came up with the second table and the door just—just wouldn’t open. I was pounding on it, screaming and yelling—what the hell took you so long?!” He sounded panicked, still, but he couldn’t seem to summon the strength to care much, at the moment. He looked up at Spot, only then noticing the tears in his eyes. He blinked furiously and Spot’s concerned frown came into clearer view.

“What do you mean?” He asked, confused. “You were only down there for, like, ten minutes. I just figured you got sidetracked.”

“Wha—no, that’s impossible, Spotty I was—” He cut off, grabbing for Spot’s wrist to read his watch. Four fifteen; he was right. He looked instinctively at his own watch again, still frozen and silent. He chanced a glance around the kitchen; let out a sigh of almost relief when he found it empty aside from the two of them. He swallowed hard, turning to look back at Spot, who was still frowning at him. “Where’d you go?” He asked, knowing his accusing tone wasn’t fair but unable to stop it. 

“What do you mean? I was here the whole time.”

“Spot, I yelled and banged on that door for a _long_ time—”

“Couldn’t have been that long, I didn't hear—”

“Look!” Race said almost frantically, holding up his hands. Bruises were already beginning to form on his palms, the heels of his hands, the edges he'd pounded against the door in his panic. Spot took his hands into his, holding them gently as he studied them. Race watched him, noting the clench of his jaw, the bob of his Adam’s apple as he swallowed. He knew what Spot was going to think, was going to say, and suddenly all he wanted was to put as much distance between them and that damn house as possible. He yanked his hands back, waving off Spot’s sound of protest. “Let’s—let’s just go home. You can check out the latch, tomorrow—”

“Racer—”

“No,” He said, more forcefully than he meant to. He pushed against Spot’s chest and stood, raking a still-shaking hand through his hair. “Let’s just go. I wanna go home.” Spot stood, brushing himself off.

“Don’t gotta tell me twice,” Spot agreed, moving just close enough to the door to kick it shut. Race winced when it slammed, moving instinctively away from it. Race squeezed Spot’s hand when he felt it slip into his, trying desperately to ignore the soreness in his palms as he did. He gripped it tighter when Spot moved to make his rounds through the house to turn off the lights; insisting they could afford the electric bill and could they please just _go home._

  
Spot glanced at him periodically as he drove home one-handed—Race refused to let go—and he knew it took an immense amount of restraint on his husband’s part not to tease him for being so scared. He couldn’t explain what had happened, couldn’t explain _why_ the door wouldn’t open or _why_ his watch stopped or _why_ he kept thinking about that stupid trunk. All he knew was that the further away from the house they got, the easier it was to breathe. He’d laugh at himself, later, he was sure, but he couldn't ignore the oppressive dread that had settled heavy in his stomach.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hii, you'll notice the rating on this story has changed from T to M. There's some pretty suggestive stuff in this chapter and it's referenced later (implied sexual content) so I'm just not comfortable rating that T anymore. If that stuff makes you uncomfortable, just skip over it but! I wanna be clear there is **nothing** explicit or even close, really. Just wanted to make note of that. Ok, enjoy!

Race steered clear of the basement after that. He couldn’t even explain it to himself, and that was maybe the worst part. Spot had checked the door the next day and, as expected, found absolutely nothing wrong with it. Race ended up convincing Henry to go down and retrieve the other end table—to Spot's barely concealed amusement. Race supposed he deserved it. For as often as he made fun of Spot for his irrational fear of the house, and as firmly as he held to his lack of belief in the supernatural, even Race was starting to wonder about the place. But they were only a week out from the Halloween open house, now, and things were falling into place.

The closest he got to the basement was the kitchen, which had somehow become his favorite room in the house. It was finished, now, and the modern touches on the Victorian space were _exactly_ what he'd envisioned in his design; and Spot had executed it flawlessly, as usual. When he found himself with downtime, he almost always ended up in the kitchen, drawn there almost involuntarily. 

Race tried hard not to look at the basement door as he meandered into the kitchen, heading instead for that beautiful window over the sink that overlooked the backyard. He had a design for that, too, but the yard turned out to be too much for him to take on by himself, and they’d hired landscapers. They’d done an incredible job, and Race found himself daydreaming about the photos he’d take of the house to help Katherine advertise it. He was beginning to think he might miss it when they were done. He could almost imagine himself looking out this window in the morning as he sipped his coffee; could almost feel Spot’s arms wrapping around him from behind—

The sound of the front door slamming startled him from his thoughts. He turned, leaning to the side a little to see down the hallway; that’d be the crew heading out for the day. They’d just finished the update on the master bathroom, which was really the last big project. It was all décor and staging from here on out. The thought sent a little thrill of excitement through him and it showed on his face when Spot joined him in the kitchen a moment later. Spot quirked an eyebrow at him, and Race was again struck by just how damn _good_ he looked; safety glasses on top of his head, fitted black tee, belt laden with all kinds of tools. _God, I love my job._

"What's got you all excited?" Spot asked, making his way around the island to join him at the sink. In lieu of an answer, Race hooked a finger in the collar of Spot’s shirt and pulled him close. Spot went willingly, sliding his arms around his waist. Race cocked his head to the side as he brought his hands to rest on Spot’s chest. 

"Just can't believe my luck, is all." 

"Oh, s'that all?" Spot chuckled softly, splaying a hand across the small of his back to move him closer. He tipped his chin up to kiss him and Race happily obliged, bringing one hand around his neck to tangle in his hair. Race, without breaking the kiss, used his slight height advantage to walk Spot backward until he was pressed into the island. Spot pulled back just far enough to speak; Race could feel him smiling against his lips. "What luck would that be?" 

Race didn't miss a beat. "The part where I get to spend every day watching my sexy husband work and boss everyone around—"

"Oh, that does it for ya, does it?" Spot's voice, low and suggestive, sent a shiver through him. He let out a soft sound, almost a whimper, and pressed Spot harder into the island.

"You _know_ it does," Race muttered, moving his hands to cup Spot’s jaw and kissing him hungrily. He could feel Spot’s hands twisting in the back of his shirt, pulling him closer as they kissed, and Race realized with a start that they were probably the only ones left in the house. He tried desperately to ignore the anxious shiver that ran up his spine at the thought. He decided instead to focus on Spot, Spot’s lips, his tongue, soft and demanding; Spot’s hands, strong and roaming, squeezing his ass and driving all thoughts of hauntings and trunks and basements from his mind. 

Suddenly, Spot gripped his hips and spun them around. Race felt the island bite into his lower back; he gasped at the contact and Spot took the opportunity to slide his tongue along his bottom lip, coaxing his mouth open as he slotted a thigh between Race’s legs. 

"Fuck, Spot," Race gasped into the kiss, more than a little surprised by the boldness—but certainly not complaining. He slid one hand into Spot’s hair at the back, gripping tightly as the kitchen fell away, and all he knew in the world was Spot. His other hand twisted into the front of Spot’s shirt to drag him as close as he possibly could. He wondered distantly if there was anyone else left in the house, but then Spot bit down gently on his lower lip and Race discovered he simply did not care either way. Spot pulled away to focus his attention on his neck, hands still roaming and Race’s eyes rolled back. “Spotty, shit—" He cut off, moaning low in his throat when Spot nipped at his neck and he struggled to form words. “Th-there are plenty of empty bedrooms, y’know.”

Spot hummed against his skin and Race almost jumped when he felt rough hands wandering beneath his shirt, across his stomach. “I know, but I kinda like the way you look right here in the kitchen…” Spot murmured, brushing his lips along his collarbone as his hands dropped to the button on Race’s pants. Race’s breath caught in his throat.

"Oh yeah?" He said, voice strained as he felt his zipper glide slowly down. "Right here on the counter, huh?" 

Spot shook his head, shooting him a wicked grin that made Race whimper impatiently before he slid his hands to the back of Race’s thighs. Spot picked him up, pressing him up against the island and Race’s legs circled his waist automatically. Race gasped, clinging to Spot’s shoulders as he walked them across the room and dropped him on the edge of the kitchen table. 

“Right here on the table,” The unconcealed desire in Spot’s low, rumbling voice sent his heart racing and his next words, murmured into his neck, rendered him speechless. “Been thinkin’ about it for weeks, y’know, how good you’d look laid out here on your back, or even better, bent over it—”

“Spot—” Race cut off in a strangled moan as Spot’s hands shoved his shirt up, out of the way of his downward path. All he wanted in that moment was for Spot to hurry the hell up and get his pants off so they could—

“ _Fuck_ ,” They spoke in unison, shock rather than pleasure tainting the word. The kitchen had gone pitch black, aside from the weak sunlight filtering through the window. In fact, the power in the entire house had gone out, suddenly and without warning; without a sound. Spot dropped his head against Race’s chest in frustration, still leaning over him on the table. The air was still, heavy, and for a moment the only sound was their labored breathing they tried desperately to get under control. 

“Damn it,” Spot growled, giving Race’s hips a squeeze that made him squirm beneath him. “Now I gotta go to the basement—”

“ _No_ ,” Race said quickly; too quickly. His hands were twisted in Spot’s shirt when Spot pulled back to look at him, eyebrows raised. “I mean, let’s just go home, we can reset the breakers in the morning—”

“Can’t,” Spot said, sounding as reluctant as Race felt. “It’s gonna get too cold tonight. We can’t leave the heat off all night.” Spot stood up and Race let his shirt slip from his hands as his brain struggled to catch up. He dropped his head back against the table. Annoyed as he was that he wasn’t going to get laid, he was more fearful to enter the basement again, even if Spot had to go, too. Perhaps even more, because of that; Spot had avoided entering the basement at all, until now. Race pushed himself up on his elbows, watching as Spot readjusted his shirt and belt; distantly remembered to zip up his own pants when he stood.

“Well, I’ll come with you,” Race said weakly, knowing it was a small consolation. What protection could he offer Spot, really? He still wasn’t even sure exactly _what_ it was he was so afraid of, down there, but he knew that he was not about to watch his husband walk down those stairs alone. Spot offered him a slight quirk of his lips in appreciation, reaching for the flashlight on his hip. 

“C’mon, then,” Spot said roughly, jerking his head toward the basement door. “Let’s get this done so we can go home.”

“And finish what we started?” Race supplied, trying desperately to lighten the mood—and he knew it showed in the way his voice wavered just slightly. Spot gave a quiet huff of amusement and winked as he reached for the doorknob.

“You bet your ass.”

Race bit back a response as the door swung open. They stared down into the darkness for a moment, and Race _almost_ shut the door and dragged Spot out of the house. But he knew Spot was right, knew they couldn’t leave the power off all night. So he reached for Spot’s hand, giving it a reassuring squeeze that Spot returned as he clicked his flashlight on and they began their uneasy descent. He chanced a glance at Spot on the way down and felt warm affection spread through his chest. He knew Spot was putting on a brave face, knew how desperately he’d avoided doing _exactly this_ since they first set foot in the house. And the knowledge that he was taking the lead now because of Race’s little _incident_ filled him with both gratitude and guilt. He couldn’t help admonishing himself a little, as they reached the bottom of the stairs; _he_ was supposed to be the brave one in the face of "haunted" basements.

He felt a shiver run through him as he stepped onto the dusty cement floor, although he could _maybe_ convince himself that was just due to the drop in temperature. He clung to Spot’s hand, following the movement of the flashlight beam until he located the breaker box, tucked away between an old dresser and a stack of boxes. There was only room for one of them to get near the box, and Race reluctantly let go of Spot’s hand to let him do his thing. Race cursed under his breath—why didn’t he think of this before?—and fished his phone out of his pocket, flipping on the flashlight while he waited. He swept the light around the room, anxiety settling slightly when everything appeared normal; nothing out of place.

Race heard the series of _clicks_ that meant Spot had flipped all the breakers back on, heard the electricity thrumming through the house. He glanced up the stairs, relief flooding through him when he saw the kitchen lights were indeed back on. Spot was back by his side in a second, reaching for his hand again, not hiding how eager he was to be out of the basement. Race gripped Spot’s hand tightly as they made their way back to the stairs, still using his phone as a flashlight. They were almost there when Race stopped dead. Spot almost stumbled, surprised as he stopped and frowned at him.

“Racer, what—”

Race didn’t answer, although his mouth opened and closed several times as if he were trying to do so. Spot followed his gaze, frown only deepening in confusion. 

“What’s that?”

“It’s… it’s nothing,” Race heard himself say, his own voice sounding strangely muffled to his ears. He felt himself drop Spot’s hand and step away, toward the corner that still held the large, wooden trunk. “I just wanna see—”

“ _Tony_ —” There was no small amount of fear in Spot’s voice, now, although he didn’t move to follow him. Race frowned, waving him off as he edged closer to the trunk. His feelings of unease seemed to have evaporated the moment he laid eyes on it, replaced by an overwhelming pull of curiosity. 

“Go ahead, I’ll be up in a minute,” He assured him, kneeling down next to it; still unable to take his eyes off of it. 

“Are you fucking kidding me?” Spot asked incredulously from his place near the bottom of the stairs. “Last time you came down here—”

“God, Spotty, just go if you’re so scared!” Race snapped, finally sparing him a glance over his shoulder. He felt a distant pang in his chest at the shock on Spot’s face but he brushed it off, turning back to the trunk and running his free hand over its surface. The metal accents were cool against his fingertips, and he vaguely heard Spot stomping up the stairs, muttering agitatedly about waiting in the truck. 

Race shined the light from his phone on the trunk, fiddling with the lock. He gave an experimental tug and— _click._ He gasped as the padlock opened, watching his shaking fingers slip it off. He had no time to wonder how the _hell_ that had happened before impulse took over completely and he heaved the lid open. “Ah, shit—” He coughed—choked, rather—on the dust that flew out in a frigid huff. He waved a hand in front of his face as it cleared, blinking as he turned the light on it again. He was so, _so_ curious to know what was inside—

“What the fuck?” He murmured, confused frown forming a deep crease in his brow. He swept the light along the length of the trunk, hardly able to believe his eyes. It was empty. 

The sight was so unexpected, so jarring that it lit a spark of anger in his chest—he couldn’t explain why, and that only pissed him off more. He slammed the lid with a huff, pushing off of it to stand and stalk toward the stairs, muttering under his breath. What a rip-off. He was still agitated when he climbed into the passenger’s seat of Spot’s truck, and they drove home in silence, Spot’s eyes remaining resolutely on the road, his jaw tight. 

Race’s irritation faded suddenly when they stepped through the door of their apartment, replaced with a wave of guilt and regret. He groaned out loud when Spot headed to the bathroom without sparing him a word or even a glance. He sighed, leaning back against the front door. Race didn’t know what had possessed him to linger in the basement, to touch that damn trunk again or, worst of all, to lash out at Spot. What he _did_ know was, if he wanted to salvage their night, he had a few things to do while Spot showered.

  
  


The shower calmed Spot down quite a bit, and combined with dinner delivered from his favorite little Italian restaurant and a sincere apology from Race, they were able to get their night back on track pretty quickly. In fact, Race had all but forgotten about the empty trunk by the time they fell into bed to ‘finish what they started.’ They tangled together afterward, sated and exhausted, and were both asleep well before midnight—which wouldn’t earn them any points with Spot’s crew, who’d affectionately dubbed them an 'old married couple,' but really, that was their business. Race remembered feeling wholly, completely safe, tucked warmly into Spot’s side, head pillowed on his chest as his steady breathing lulled him to sleep. Nothing in that house could get him, could reach him here—

He sat straight up, gasping as the dark bedroom spun into view. He was cold and clammy, heart pounding out of his chest urging him to get up, to run, anywhere at all, but he was frozen in place. Little by little, his surroundings came into focus. There was the dresser, the attached mirror; their TV, mounted on the wall, providing dim light in the form of Netflix advertisements; his husband, warm and oblivious, sleeping next to him. He swallowed, or rather tried to—his throat was too dry for it to work, really, and he reached for the glass of water on the side table almost desperately. Race’s heart continued to pound even after he’d drained the glass, which only increased his anxiety. 

He knew he’d had a nightmare—that much was obvious. The unsettling part was that he couldn’t remember _any_ of it. He remembered feelings, more than anything else; of desperation, of bone-deep terror. The paralyzing despair of being utterly, hopelessly trapped. His heart had yet to slow, still thudding almost painfully in his chest. Race leaned away from Spot, reaching for his phone to check the time when—

“Tony! Holy shit, Tony—"

Race nearly jumped out of his skin, head whipping around so fast he tweaked a muscle in the back of his neck. His heart was in his throat again, veins flooded with adrenaline at the sheer panic in Spot’s voice as he sat bolt upright next to him, eyes wide and terrified. 

"Spo—" Spot's arms were around him before he could get his name out, clutching him tightly to his chest. Race let out a little squeak of surprise even as his arms went around him automatically. Spot’s hand moved to cradle his head and Race could feel his fingers shaking in his hair. “What happened? What’s wrong?”

“Racer, fuck,” Spot panted, resting his chin on top of Race’s head. He realized, suddenly, that it wasn't just Spot’s hands that were trembling, but his entire body. Race squeezed his eyes shut, pressing his cheek harder into Spot’s chest as though he could crawl inside him if he just tried hard enough. "Holy _shit_." 

"What happened?" Race asked again, quietly; he was fairly sure he already knew the answer, and he didn't particularly want to hear it. Spot’s grip on him hadn't loosened, and he drew a deep, shaking breath before he answered. 

"Just… just a nightmare." The way his voice wavered told Race without a doubt it wasn't _just_ a nightmare. He didn't want to push him, so he focused on the beating of Spot’s heart against his ear, slowly settling back to a normal pace; on the comfort that came just from being wrapped in his arms. "It's that fucking house, Racer, I know it." 

Somehow, Race wasn't expecting that. "Wh-what?" He sputtered, pulling reluctantly out of Spot’s warm embrace to flip on the light on his bedside table before turning back to him. "What do you mean?"

Spot reached for him again, and Race wasn't sure who was comforting who, anymore. "It was… I was in the house. Hell House," he clarified, unnecessarily. "And I heard you yelling from the basement." He paused, jaw clenched tightly. Race waited. "I went down the stairs, and I could hear you still but I couldn't see you. Couldn't find you." 

"I'm right here," Race reminded him softly, tucking himself into his side again. Spot squeezed him a little tighter than was strictly necessary, but Race was grateful for it in the wake of his own mysterious midnight waking. 

"I know," Spot murmured, pressing a gentle kiss to his hair. "But then I saw the trunk." 

Race’s blood turned to ice. "The what?" He heard himself ask. He didn't even think Spot had noticed the trunk enough for it to turn up in a dream. 

"That old wooden trunk you were messing with, remember?" Race inhaled sharply through his nose as he nodded silently. Of course Spot didn't know just how well acquainted he was with the trunk; he'd only seen it for the first time earlier that day. "It was in the middle of the floor and I kept almost tripping over it until finally I got down to open it and—" He stopped abruptly. Race could hear him taking long, steadying breaths. He lifted his head to look at him again. 

"And?" Race prompted, his stomach in knots. Spot swallowed hard before he answered.

"And it was you. You... you were inside it," The words came slowly, reluctantly; as though they were being pulled out of him rather than articulated by choice. "Stuffed inside it, all jammed up and twisted and—God, Racer, it was fucking _awful_." 

Race’s heart was in his throat. Spot cuddled him close again and he went willingly, weakly. He hardly realized how tightly he was clenching his jaw—he was far too preoccupied by the feelings of familiarity flooding through him at Spot’s words. He hadn't remembered his own dream, that much was true. But the ease with which he conjured the images Spot described, the way he could clearly see in his mind's eye, himself, contorted to fit inside the trunk, limbs bent at awkward, broken angles, blue eyes open but glazed, unseeing. He knew, deep in his bones, that he had seen it before.

Race drew a shuddering breath and tried his best to keep his anxiety out of his voice. "Well, it was just a dream. See? I'm fine, I'm right here." 

Spot hummed, still holding him tightly. He leaned back against the pillows, taking Race with him. He rubbed a hand over his back almost absently; Race wasn't sure if Spot even knew he was doing it, but he tried to take comfort from it, anyway. "Wait, why were you up?"

"Hmm?" Race hummed, stalling. He knew he was deflecting. But he couldn't bring himself to add to Spot’s anxiety about the house, or about his safety there. "Oh, I was just… hot." 

"Hot, huh." Spot grunted in response. It was less a question and more an acknowledgment, an invitation to share. But Race didn't take it, and Spot didn't push. "Well, I hope you're cooled down now 'cause I'm not gonna let you go again tonight."

"Whatsa matter, Conlon, ya scared?" Race teased even as he snuggled closer against him. He knew the bedside light was still on, but he made no move to switch it off. Spot huffed, bringing one hand up to run his fingers gently through Race’s tangled curls. 

"Of losin' you? Yeah, Racer," Spot answered quietly and Race felt his heart clench in his chest. "I'd say that's the one thing that scares me the most." 

Race pushed against Spot’s chest to lean up and kiss him firmly, sweetly. "I'm not going anywhere." He said resolutely, addressing Spot, himself, the damned house and whoever else would dare try to drag him away. He settled back down, forcing himself to focus on Spot’s strong arms, protective around him, his steady breathing as he fell back asleep—quicker than Race would've expected. Only sheer exhaustion and fatigue from his frayed nerves eventually pulled him under, too, with just one thought repeating in his mind.

_Only six more days._


	5. Chapter 5

After Spot’s nightmare—Race still hadn’t admitted he’d had one of his own, although he thought maybe Spot knew anyway—neither one of them entered the house alone anymore. Race was still trying to convince himself that he was being completely ridiculous and irrational; that their matching nightmares had somehow been a coincidence, a result of overactive imaginations and their many years together. But the fact remained that he was undeniably more comfortable, more confident stepping through the threshold with Spot there with him, even though there was almost no logical reason for him to be there, anymore. From here on out was typically Race’s time to shine, finalizing the staging and adding the little details that made them such a sought-after team. And usually, Spot took this time off to rest after weeks of manual labor, but not with this house. No, he was there, day after day, offering truly terrible design suggestions and wholeheartedly sincere compliments when Race ignored them. 

They’d scheduled the open house for Halloween; initially, it had been something of a joke, Race unable to hide his amusement at the distinctly panicked look in Spot’s eyes when he brought it up the first time. 

_“You know Halloween is the one time—”_

_“Yeah yeah, the ‘veil to the other side’ is at its thinnest, I know, Spotty, I’ve seen movies.”_

_“Then why the_ fuck _—”_

_“It’s for the_ atmosphere _, baby. People will love it. We’ll have offers coming out of our ears, Kath’ll lose her mind.”_

But now, as the day dawned grey and cold and rainy, Race wished he could change it. Wished he wasn’t suddenly so affected by the season—God, he was turning into his husband—and the way the weather had taken a frigid, gloomy turn. 

They had the entire day planned out. Spot would head across the city to pick up spooky, yet tasteful snacks to set out for prospective buyers. Race would ride with Katherine to the house to double-check every last detail and arrange furniture to allow for easy foot traffic; Kath had been posting pictures of the renovation on her company’s social media, and they were expecting a big turnout. Race was waiting for her in his kitchen, idly sipping his coffee and drumming his fingers against the counter in an anxious habit. One more day, just _one_ more day. He could do this. He hadn’t had any nightmares, since that night—at least, not that he could remember. But it was true that he’d woken up more often than he wanted to admit, chilled to the bone. His dreams always slipped through his fingers as he became coherent, and he’d learned not to bother checking the time when he woke; it was always three am. 

Race was startled from his thoughts by the buzzing of his phone against the counter; he tried to ignore the shot of adrenaline that ran through him at the sudden noise. _Fuck, it’s gonna be a long day._

“Hey, Kath. You here?”

“Ugh, no, not yet,” Katherine sounded flustered; Race could hear the sounds of heavy traffic in the background. “I’m gonna be— _yeah, fuck you too!_ —sorry, Race I’m gonna be a little late.”

Race chuckled at her outburst, waving a dismissive hand as though she could see him. “That’s okay, when will you be here?”

“Actually, I was wondering if I could just meet you at the house.” 

Race gulped. “Uh, what’s going on?” He asked in lieu of an answer.

“Sarah needs me to pick up keys from the office and run them over to her at a property,” She explained, sounding genuinely apologetic, and a little annoyed. Race raised an eyebrow curiously; it wasn't like Katherine's fiancée to forget things like that. “I could have _sworn_ she had the right ones—”

“That’s fine, Kath,” Race interrupted her, standing up to take his coffee mug to the sink. “I’m a big boy, I can get there on my own.”

“You’re sure? I’m sorry, Race—”

“It’s no problem,” Race assured her, impressed with the conviction he heard in his voice; wondered where it came from. “I can take Spot’s—” He broke off, frowning as he remembered. No, he couldn’t take Spot’s truck, because it was in the shop; all four tires had somehow gone flat in the two hours they’d spent at the house the day before. He sighed, running a hand through his hair. “It’s fine, I can take a cab.”

“Okay, if you’re sure,”

“I’m sure. I’ll see ya there, yeah?”

“I’ll be there as soon as I can— _the gas pedal’s the one on the right, asshole!_ —sorry, okay bye.”

Race laughed softly as the line disconnected; Katherine’s road rage was truly something special to behold, and he was a little disappointed he wouldn’t have the chance to witness it in person. He wished he’d had the sense to ride with Spot when he’d left for the bakery, but nothing could be done about that, now. His heart lifted a little when he slid into the backseat of the cab; maybe Spot would be at the house by the time he got there.

Race ran up the slippery walk when he arrived, shoulders hunched as he tried to dodge the icy raindrops. Gone were the days of admiring the house from the sidewalk, despite how gorgeous it looked, now; windows fixed, ivy tastefully trimmed. These days, he hurried to the porch with his eyes on his feet, fighting the internal shame from that rational part of his brain that tried to remind him he had _nothing to be afraid of._ That part had gotten quieter in recent days, and it was quiet now as he lingered on the porch, shaking the rain from his hair. He checked his watch. Spot had left well over an hour ago. That _could_ have been enough time for him to get there, but Race wasn’t confident enough in that possibility to take the step over the threshold.

But as he shivered in the late autumn chill, the misty wind whipped mercilessly through his too-thin jacket and that quiet part got a little louder. Standing there, waiting for an adult to arrive before he had the guts to open the door made him feel silly. He steeled himself; Spot would be there soon enough. He could handle himself for a few minutes. 

“C’mon, Racer,” He huffed, drawing his shoulders back as if he could force the bravery he certainly didn’t feel. Maybe Spot was already inside, setting up the snacks. Race blew out a steadying breath and took a deliberate step toward the door. He twisted the knob and his stomach flipped when the door swung open, unlocked; oh, maybe Spot really _was_ there already. He swallowed hard as he closed the door behind him, grateful at least for the warm respite from the rain. 

The house was eerily quiet. His eyes darted around the foyer before he took another step, sweeping his gaze from side to side as he walked slowly toward the living room. He could hear his heart beating; hear his careful breaths. He was nearly to the entrance to the living room when he heard a shuffling, rustling sound down the hall. Race frowned.

“Hello?” He called cautiously. Silence. He tried again, unable to keep the hopeful note out of his voice. “Spotty? Ya here?”

“In the kitchen!” 

The relief that flooded through him at the familiar sound of his husband’s voice almost took him off his feet. He brought a hand to his chest and braced himself against the wall, closing his eyes as he felt his heartrate slow to a normal pace. Now he _knew_ he'd been overreacting. Race felt almost light when he straightened up, his smile quick and easy as he noticed the card tables set up in the living room. He made his way over to them, grateful for something to keep his hands busy while they waited for Katherine, and set to work making the space look inviting and classy, yet still a little spooky. 

“I can’t believe it’s finally here,” He said conversationally, knowing his voice would carry down the narrow hall. "I mean, we _actually_ pulled it off. Don't get me wrong, I had no doubt, but it's just so _perfect_ having the open house on Halloween." Race prattled on as he flitted around the room, not disturbed in the slightest by the silence from the kitchen. He was used to babbling into the void while Spot nodded along, conveying more with his eyes and facial expressions than even Race could with words. "Aw, shit, we should've thrown a _Halloween_ _party_!" 

Race sighed, lamenting the missed opportunity. He smirked when he heard that low chuckle from the kitchen. It was amazing, really, how much calmer, more comfortable he felt in the house, just knowing Spot was there. 

"Fuck it," He said, letting a little of that lightness into his tone as he wandered back into the hall. "Let's cancel the open house and keep the place." He laughed as he said it, but he thought for a moment that there might have been a small piece of him that meant it. The house _was_ stunning, and the neighborhood was certainly desirable; they _did_ already own it, after all. Maybe they could get serious about starting a family, here; and that school district…

"I mean, we _could_ ," Came the reply from the kitchen, and Race stopped dead. That cold anxiety he'd come to associate with the house began to creep up his spine. Did Spot really just say…? 

"You're joking," Race said breathily, almost a laugh. He could hear Spot’s footsteps in the kitchen now, slow and deliberate; the sound made the hair on the back of his neck stand up. _Something is wrong._

"It _is_ a beautiful house, Race. I'd be a fool not to realize that." 

_Fuck. Shit. Fuck._

Icy panic coursed through his veins, freezing him in place. Spot didn't call him Race. Nearly a decade they'd known each other, and if he wasn't Tony, he was Racer always. _Always_. Race realized with a start that the kitchen light was off.

"If you wanna stay," The voice from the kitchen—because whoever that was, it was decidedly _not_ _Spot_ —continued, inching closer to the end of the hall, to Race’s line of sight. "Then we should stay. You should stay." 

Race wasn't entirely sure how it was that he was still breathing, even as his breaths came in short, anxious gasps. He kept his eyes locked on the end of the hall, where he could just see the kitchen table and the edge of the counter, and took one careful, quiet step toward the front door. Logic and rational thinking were no longer in the picture; he was moving on pure animal instinct, gnawing at him from the inside out, screaming at him to _get the fuck out_. 

"I-I mean," He stuttered, grimacing at the nervous quiver in his voice. He was stalling, now, as he took another step down the hall. He had a sudden flash of memory, of pounding desperately on the basement door and he had to fight the urge to bolt. "We should go ahead with the open house," Step. Breathe. "Ya never know what kind of offers we'll get." He glanced quickly over his shoulder at the door, biting his lip anxiously when he realized how much farther he still had to go. He took another step, cringing when the hardwood groaned in protest beneath his feet. "Maybe we'll get one high enough that we can finally build our dream home," Race offered, injecting his voice with what he prayed was believable hope. "Like we always talked about." 

"I dunno," The voice sounded almost hopeful, and so, _so_ very similar to Spot’s but just a little… off. Hollow, reedy. "Hard to think of anything this house doesn't already have, isn't it? Besides, you look so good here, baby," Race bit down hard on his lip, barely fighting back a whimper of fear at the way _baby_ washed over him; slimy and wrong. He just had to get to the door. Step. Breathe. "Didn't you say you could imagine yourself here?" 

"I don't think I said—"

Several things happened at once. Spot— _not Spot_ —stepped into his view at the end of the long hall, bathed in shadows. The edges of him were rough, undefined, but the silhouette was similar enough to send a jolt straight through his gut and up through his chest and Race stumbled backward. Not Spot’s head whipped around too quickly, understanding flashing bright and angry in those eyes— _too_ dark, too empty to be his husband. Race opened his mouth—to defend himself, to scream, he wasn't sure—when the door swung open behind him.

"Racer? You here? Kath called and said—" 

Spot’s voice— _his real voice, it's him!_ —sent a wave of relief through him that turned almost immediately to one of heavy, certain dread. Race tore his gaze from those bottomless eyes, that half-familiar face, twisted in feral, possessive rage, and turned toward the front door.

Race had half a second to memorize his husband’s features—those gorgeous, deep brown eyes, fixed over his shoulder and wide with horrified recognition, his lips, already forming the shape of his name in warning, his hand outstretched and Race reached desperately for him, despite the sinking truth that spread through his limbs like lead and rooted him to the floor. He was too far away from the door, _knew_ he wouldn't, couldn't make it that far before—

The door slammed shut.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Halloween! 🖤🧡
> 
> (And yeah, sorry 😂)


End file.
